Page 24 of Forbidden Passions

“Gabriel—” I started to protest, startled by the sudden move.

“You’re sore,” he said, jaw tight. “I was too rough. Let me take care of you.”

Not I want to.

Not I should.

Let me.

He was asking for permission when he didn’t have to and that broke me a little for some reason. Didn’t he know I’d give him everything?

I melted into him as he carried me to the bathroom, the warmth of his bare chest seeping into my skin like an anchor. When he set me down, I swayed slightly, and his hands steadied me.

He turned on the water and adjusted the temperature with clinical precision. The bathroom filled with steam as he opened the glass door, stepped in and held out his hand.

I took it with a bit of hesitation. This was the first time I’d ever taken a shower with a man. I didn’t know what to do, what to expect. I’d read about shower sex, of course, but from the look on his face I didn’t think that was going to happen.

He wore that same closed off expression he’d had the moment we’d met—like he was battling something I couldn’t see. It made my heart ache. He stepped in behind me, adjusting the spray. His body was a wall of heat, and I leaned back into it automatically, shivering under the weight of everything I was feeling.

The water sluiced down over both of us, and I felt his hand reach around me to grab the soap. He lathered his palms, then began running them over my skin—my shoulders, my arms, my back. His touch wasn’t tender. It was as if touching me went against his better judgment and he wanted to pull away but couldn’t.

I felt tears start to form in my eyes. Was he already regretting what had happened between us? I knew I never would, but I didn’t know how to tell him that. Or even if he wanted to hear it.

When he reached between my thighs, I gasped.

“Too much?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No. Just… tender.”

His hand paused. Then his voice dropped lower. “I should’ve gone easier.”

“You were perfect,” I said quietly. “It was perfect.”

He didn’t respond. Just rinsed the soap away and turned me in his arms.

I looked up at him—wet hair slicked back from his face, water tracing the hard lines of his jaw, his chest heaving like he was still trying to get himself under control.

And I wanted to help. Not fix. Not soothe. Just give him something that felt good. Something that didn’t hurt. I reachedfor him. My hands slid down his stomach, lower, wrapping around the hard length of him. Touching me had affected him, no matter how he tried to deny it.

“Let me take care of you,” I whispered.

Something flashed across his face—want, yes, but also something darker.

“No.”

“But—”

“I said no.”

He gripped my wrists—not hard, but firm—and lifted my hands away from him, pressing them against his chest.

“I’ve already had everything I want,” he growled. “You think I need more from you after that?”

My breath caught. Had last night meant something to him? Something more than two strangers in a cabin?

He leaned down, kissed me. Not soft. Not sweet. It was possessive, filled with hunger. His hands slid back down between my thighs. “Do you want me to make you feel better? Take the edge off?” He bit down on my earlobe. “Because I know you’re still hungry, baby. You’re wet for me.

“I… I don’t know if I can again.”

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